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"He's got all the earmarks of a reg'lar invited guest, ain't he?" says I. "And unless you're achin' to start somethin', why not let me handle this 'Who the blazes are you? act?" He sees the point too, Mr. Robert does. He shrugs his shoulders and grins. "That's so," says he. "All right, Torchy. Full diplomatic powers, and if necessary I shall restrain Ferdie by the collar."
I guess we've known each other too long for that, eh?" And I holds out the friendly mitt. Honest, he's got a human streak in him, Piddie has, if you know where to strike it. The cast-iron effect comes out of his shoulders, the wooden look from his face. He almost smiles. "Thank you, Torchy," says he. "I er my congratulations on your new "
"At the same old address," adds Vee, "so you can guess what that means, Torchy." "Uh-huh!" says I. "The Patricia apartments has a perfectly punk janitor again and we're due to listen to another long tale of woe." "Oh, well," says Vee, "it will be interesting to see if Mrs. Gummidge is still bearing up cheerful and singing that 'When the Clouds Are Darkest' song of hers.
"Ask Torchy," suggests Vee. And, as I'm all ready except another half hitch to my white tie, I'm elected. Three minutes more and I'm whizzin' down in the limousine to receive the Southern delegate. And say, when I pipes the fairy in the half-masted skirt and the zippy Balkan bonnet, I begins bracin' myself for what I could see comin'.
"One does, you know, in forty years." "There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry. Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that "
"Now, Torchy," says he, "it will cost you five weeks' salary to pay for these; but if I raise you a dollar a week and take it out a little at a time you'll never miss it. Anyway, you're a shareholder from now on." Did you ever get rich all of a sudden, like that! You feel it first up and down the small of your back, and then it goes to your knees. I couldn't say a blamed word that was sensible.
"Oh, I've taken out a butt-in license," says I. "I'm on, Miss Ellins. I wa'n't invited to the rehearsal; but I was there." "Listening outside?" says she. "Uh-huh," says I. "Oh, Torchy!" says she. "Did you hear how lovely the professor talked of the way I did it?" "About your havin' Julia Marlowe sewed in a sack? Sure thing," says I. "But you mustn't tell anyone," says she.
"You see, Torchy," says Zenobia, droppin' two lumps into her demitasse, "I am an unbeliever. I don't even believe in growing old. When I hear of other persons who have come to disbelieve in established things, no matter what, I send for them and find out all about it across the dinner table. We discuss art, religion, politics, goodness knows what.
Old Hickory chokes some on a swallow of black coffee he's just hoisted in; but he recovers enough to nod. "Does he get the run?" says I. "I neglected consulting you about it, Torchy," says he; "but his resignation has been called for." "Filled the job yet?" says I. "Fortunately, no," says he, and I knew by the way he squints that he thought he was bein' mighty humorous.
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "Neither do you, Mister Torchy." "Oh, yes, I do," says I. "I've got just the same as you." Vee runs out the tip of her tongue at me. "That's the sort of disposition," says she, "which goes with red hair." "Towhead yourself!" says I. "What kind of a scramble has the cook got on the eggs to-day?" "You'd better order soft-boiled," says Vee. "I'll open them for you."
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